


Dark waters

by millenialmermaid



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18531706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millenialmermaid/pseuds/millenialmermaid
Summary: What if King Rastakhan made a deal with N'Zoth instead Azshara?





	Dark waters

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot to atalzul (tumblr) for helping me to translate this fic from my language to English. Wish you enjoy it!

The trolls in Dazar’alor grinned as the fleet led by the Prophet Zul sailed into the distance. From their comfortable position in the lively and luxurious golden city, recently blessed with a bountiful harvest, they sarcastically waved to their departing friends.

 

_“Dey will come back like fools when nothin’ happens!”_

 

Their king’s calm dismissal of Zul’s warning has convinced them that the empire will continue to flourish unthreatened. Their erstwhile friends will only make a couple of laps around the world, forging new alliances and eventually returning to their homeland without incident.

 

_“Ma brother will owe me a bag of gold when he will returns!”_

 

The Prophet watches them sadly. He has already said his goodbyed to the king in clipped tones; Zul had been irritated by the king’s disbelief, and in turn Rastakhan had been frustrated by Zul’s reluctance to hear reason.

 

The prophet privately hopes that his vision will be as false as his critics assert, or at least not as destructive as he what he Sees, for every vision brings forth a clearer picture of ruin.

 

\---------------------

 

One night, as a storm rages outside, Zul wakes up to See a vision as clear as day to his shivering old bones:

 

_Dazar'alor in ruins, destroyed and swallowed by dark waters._

 

_Bright red eyes in the darkness._

 

_Enormous tentacles emerging from the water, grasping the survivors and drowning them in the cruel sea._

 

All of this is so tangibly real, as if he could touch those tentacles or grab one of the struggling trolls by the arms and pull them to safety.

 

But the vision ends before he can even try.

 

\----------------------

 

It was only thanks to a handful of bedraggled survivors that the news reaches Zul’s ears before his fleet is long gone on their journey to distant lands.

 

His terrible prediction had come true. All of Zuldazar and its people had disappeared under the water.

  
  


Zul takes the news poorly, even though he doesn’t show it. As hoped for, the worst of his visions had not come to pass. The whole planet had not perished, the lands were not all burned and destroyed forever.

 

But the one part that mattered most, his home, now rested with its inhabitants on the dark blue sea.

 

His heart sinks at the thought of never being able to go home again. Never being able to see that stupid, smug smirk on Rastakhan’s face. Not having a place to go back and continue his work, work which had exhausted him, but which he’d always performed with devotion and pride.

 

The prophet becomes angry, then furious, and then finally deeply sad. He digs his claws into the side of the ship, looking into the blue distance. No matter how grief-stricken he was, how much he would like to howl at the moon, he had his followers to guide.

 

Together it was agreed that they would first honor the memory of the departed and then move on to reestablish the Empire in new lands.

 

\---------------------

 

As the ground shakes and the waters surge, the panicking trolls in the capitol try to flee. Many are buried by the disintegrating masonry of Dazar’alor’s monumental architecture. Heavy golden statues and decorative elements tumble away and immediately sink into the growing rift that has opened under the city.

 

A huge seal, cracked in two so very easily, tumbles in with everything else, disappearing into the dusty mist of ruin and stormy waters formed inside the yawning chasm.

 

In mere moments, the luxurious golden capital sinks beneath the water, just as Zul had warned.

 

\---------------------

 

A second ago, Rastakhan was giving orders for evacuation. Now he is surrounded by cold water in an overturned world, disoriented and greedily gulping for air like a drowning toad. Despite being a strong swimmer, the weight of his heavy golden armor and his burden of responsibility pulls him down.

 

“Rezan!” he roars.

 

There is no response from the Loa of Kings. Nor from the Loa of Death. (The latter, Rastakhan thinks bitterly, is likely enjoying the speedy influx of trolls into his kingdom.)

 

There is no time to ponder. The king drops his heavy crown and pauldrons and dives into the chilly gloom, trying to help the trapped trolls around him for as long as his breath lasts. He pushes a fallen stone block off one, and helps another escape a tangle of ropes and vines.

 

He remembers then that young Talanji was likely sleeping in her guarded chambers deep in the pyramid at the time of the disaster, and his heart clenches in terror.

 

Someone whispers in his ear with every heartbeat.

 

_“Zul was right.”_

 

_“You should have listened to him.”_

 

_“It is your fault.”_

 

_“Your people are dying because you did nothing to save them.”_

 

Rastakhan bites his lip bloody in order to knock the voice out of head. Like the demons that had surely organized this whole horrorshow, they are trying to break his spirit and body. But the king does not give up so easily.

 

It is getting harder to hold his breath, despite the fact that he was gifted with unusual health and strength.

 

In the distance, behind a statue of one of the loa, Rastakhan sees the glitter of precious stones. Pink minerals, which throughout the empire were only in his and Talanji’s crowns. Too expensive and too rare for any but the royal line. Fragile, like his young daughter. They gleam brightly in the murky twilight of the drowned city, sometimes disappearing from sight.

 

Those few seconds of hope give him the strength and zeal to prevent Bwonsamdi from finally taking his soul after so many years.

 

_“Talanji…”_

 

_“Talanji!”_

 

In his head, only one word throbs. He is nearly out of breath and must make a choice - to recklessly swim further down in search of her, or conserve his strength and return to the surface. What about the others? Should a king be leaving his suffering people in order to selfishly find his daughter?

 

Fate makes his choice for him. A heavy piece from one of the temple columns slams into him, forcing him down into the abyss, down towards Talanji. His involuntary gasp of pain fills his lungs with saltwater.

 

Rastakhan tries furiously to extricate himself, but it is a futile effort. The light above only grows more distant as he sinks so deep that his limbs begin to go numb from the icy grip of the depths.

 

All around him float gold coins and jewelry, beautiful and glittering and worthless. All that they were so proud of, and did not want to leave on the road to uncharted lands…

 

_“Oh, dear friend. Why did I not listen to you? Why did I chase you away?”_

 

The king’s eyes burn. Weakness attacks like a circling predator. And in the role of the exhausted prey, he can only close his eyes and surrender to the sea.

 

\---------------------

 

“What…?”

 

Rastakhan realizes that he has stopped drowning when he can breathe without swallowing more water. He hangs in the twilight stillness of the sea, heart beating feebly. Slow and almost silent, but still supporting his miserable life.

 

A glowing red eye opens in front of him, the brightness forcing him to flinch away, squinting.

 

_Do you want... to live?_

 

What is this? A huge fish? A monstrous lizard?

 

Rezan?

 

...No, Rezan does not answer him even now. All his prayers to the Loa of Kings disintegrate, unanswered.

 

This huge thing, frightening in its size, looks directly at him with its blazing eye and peers deep into his soul. But Rastakhan is not afraid. He is surprised, and does not understand what was happening, but he is not afraid. Kings are not afraid.

 

_King Rastakhan... I have been watching you for thousands of years._

 

Rastakhan can see without squinting and speak without breathing. What is this voodoo? And more importantly, _whose_? He does not recognize being from any of the ancient lore. It is no loa.

 

_I am an ancient god who has lived since long before you. All the world once belonged to me. On the ruins of this once magnificent empire, I will return to greatness. And I feel myself generous today._

 

The darkness begins to thicken, squeezing his neck like an invisible rope.

 

_You have a choice. Make a deal with me and live on as my servant. Or die like a worm._

 

Rastakhan does not respond immediately. This offer hurts his pride. But more than pride, he loves his people. Loves his daughter. He looks around him, at the fragments of the city still tumbling distantly into the abyss. Rastakhan reaches out to the faint light of the surface, shining ever so far away, and then squeezes his open hand into a fist.

 

“No.”

 

He answers resolutely and bravely, looking into the eye of the enemy. Whatever happens, the king cannot be a slave. Rastakhan has not ruled for hundreds of years to bow at another’s feet.

 

_No?!_

 

The ancient god reacts with fury at his audacity. Its tentacles wrap around Rastakhan and begin to squeeze with violent strength, nearly wringing the life from him before he speaks one hoarse word:

 

“King.”

 

The god freezes in surprise.

 

_What?_

 

“King. I want to be king, as before. Not a slave of your divine wars,” Rastakhan says clearly. “I am the God-King of an ancient empire, despite my current situation. I am blessed by all past and present loa, and all previous kings.”

 

The god listens to him in silence. And when its grip loosens, a grin appears on the lips of the old troll. He has grabbed the snake by the head, and stopped its lethal bite.

 

“You saw how useful I am. How many times I have deceived death and defeated powerful enemies. Concluded alliances with de most terrible creatures. We kept the whole world at bay. I’ll bring the heads of all your enemies to ya feet... to ya tentacles. Give me back my kingdom. And I will return you to your former greatness.”

 

The god still does not answer him. But Rastakhan stubbornly looks directly at that fiery eye, refusing to back down.

 

As the silence lengthens, he prepares for the worst for his audacity. Victory or death.

 

A needle-sharp pain pierces his body, bringing with it a darkness that spreads through his body with nightmarish speed. It is as if he is caught in a stormy river, picked up and beat upon all the boulders, helpless against the roaring force of the water. And then it stops just as quickly as it started, and Rastakhan is able to open his eyes and breathe with ease.

 

The eye has disappeared, and the strange god with it. But since Rastakhan is not dead, and his soul is still in his body … had it accepted his conditions?

 

Peering around the dark expanse, he sees several creatures that look like huge serpents…or fish…or perhaps dinosaurs, all at the same time.

 

Naga.

 

Anger stirs within him. Is Zandalar's demise the handiwork of these beasts? They look at him with their black fish eyes, but do not attack. They only watch cautiously, and slowly swim closer.

 

 _Why are their faces so troll-like?_ he wonders with growing unease.

 

When the little naga extends her arms to him, the pink jewels in her crown twinkling faintly in the dimness, he realizes everything.

 

They are not a monsters.

 

He was a monster.

 

\---------------------

 

When the Zandalari fleet makes it back to the ruins of Dazar'alor, the more emotional among them cannot hold back their tears and screams of agony. The magnitude of the devastation is evident, despite the lack of visible bodies. Any shred of hope they had clung onto for additional survivors is quickly banished.

 

A hush falls upon the fleet as the trolls bow their heads, each praying to their loa, asking for peace for their loved ones.

 

Zul, too, is quiet. What kind of monster had done this to the capitol? Was it Deathwing? A mad loa? Or could it have been the monster that haunts the edges of his visions, the monster that observes him from the grasping depths?

 

The answer is not long in coming. His ship begins to shake, and then sway violently from side to side.

 

“Prophet Zul! Something is attacking our ship!” the captain shouts as he rushes to the helm. “We need to leave!”

 

“Then turn the ships around faster! Stop standing around picking your noses!”

 

The crew flee in their places, and the prophet heads to a safer position belowdecks. No, he will not die today. In his hands lay the remnants of the greatest empire this world has ever seen. He must survive to give the Zandalari a future.

 

In the name of his people.

 

In the name of his friend.

 

In the name of Zandalar.

 

He must survive.

 

A giant tentacle bursts from the water next to the ship and slams down upon it, smashing into the deck with a thunderous crack that cleaves the ship nearly in two. Water begins to rush in through the shattered hull.

 

Zul had seen this in his vision on that stormy night. He had known that this would happen.

 

 _Why_ has he come back here? Some ridiculous subconscious ploy to reiterate the inevitability of his dark predictions to an audience already loyal?

 

Zul hurries to flee to the neighboring ship, but the ship jolts sharply as another tentacle lashes it and he falls and rolls down the increasingly tilted deck, losing his heavy ornamentation on the way. Another jolt tosses him overboard.

 

Weak old hands grab at the rail of the ship at the last moment, but he quickly loses his grip and plunges into the roiling sea.

 

The cacophony of the fight is instantly muted as he passes beneath the waves.

 

_“Zul…”_

 

Stormy waters bring him a distant whisper, both familiar and impossible.

 

 _“Hallucinations must have begun due to oxygen deprivation,”_ his mind helpfully supplies.

 

He begin to swim towards the surface. Slowly, weakly.

 

_“Zul...”_

 

The voice grows clearer and the prophet tries to find the source. The voice is painfully familiar. But his old eyes are forced into a squint from the stinging saltwater, making it hard to see anything past an outstretched hand.

 

_“ZUL!”_

 

A shadow appears before him and the prophet freezes. The familiar face is distorted from scales and elongated growths on the skin, but Zul knows these cherished details by heart. That smirk, those cunning eyes. The scar, left over from the most successful of the many assassination attempts.

 

_“Ras-”_

 

In his surprise, Zul has forgotten the water surrounding him. His exclamation comes out as garbled bubbles.  A clawed hand lays upon his lips, closing his mouth to keep him from wasting more precious breath.

 

 _“My dear friend... you ssaid that we would die... but we ssurvived. And we became sstrong. Are you still with me?”_ a slightly hissing tone reaches his long ears.

 

Rastakhan resembles an ancient monster, with long membranes and tentacles growing from his head, and a tail replacing his legs.

 

_What has become of you, my dear friend?_

 

Zul finds it hard to believe his eyes, but his heart still beats with a furious hope from the realization that he is talking to _Rastakhan_ , that the voice is real, that his friend still lives.

 

The prophet touches the king’s face, feeling it with weak and trembling fingers. Not at all the same as before, skin rough from the scales. But it is still so wonderful to see him.

 

Mind was blinded by emotions from an unexpected meeting, which he, surprisingly, did not foresee one bit of.

 

So, can it meaning something good?

 _“_ _We will figured it out later_ _”,_ \- the old Prophet think, _\- “but now…”_


End file.
